


The Monster Within

by anzu_brief



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 15:46:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5010532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anzu_brief/pseuds/anzu_brief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story between an SS officer and a french inmate, former member of the Resistance. A story where hate and love, duty and freedom, loss and forgiveness, walk hand by hand and the lines between black and white are more blurred than it might seem with a naked eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was a warm day of summer if slightly foggy, which wasn't uncommon for the Channel Islands, strategically located at the sea between the territories at the north of French and the south of England.

Grantaire woke up unusually early, and his first impulse was to find his oil colours to immortalize the landscape that one could descry from the small window of his bedroom, the one that wasn't looking towards the complex building which his house was part of, but towards the distant skyline tarnished with the colours of dawn, the sun rising above the blue sea and reflecting the sunlight over the fine morning mist.

Fortunately, it took only three seconds for his mind to come back to reality and dispel that pointless yearning. There was not time for painting in his new life. There was far more important things to do.

His feet led him to the bathroom. Following the routine of every morning, he relieved himself in the toilet, washed his hands, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair until his curls reflected at least some of the neatness required for army officials; all of it without thinking anything in particular. He went back to his bedroom, discarded the loose trousers he had worn for bed, put on his SS uniform, picked up the briefcase with the documents he needed to show the Camp Commander, and walked out of the room.

Then he descended the stairs, quickly crossed the hall, and exited the house. In a usual morning he would have stopped in the kitchen to drink his coffee and to eat a toast or a piece of fruit, depending on his mood, but today he had a meeting with the Commander and no time to lose.

The charming wife of the Commander welcomed him when he rang the bell at the door. She was a petite woman, substantially closer to Grantaire’s age than that of her husband, with a slim constitution and a narrow waist. Her beauty wasn't the most appreciated for the Nazis; her hair colour was too dark, and her skin not fair enough, but Grantaire liked her. The features of her face reflected an inner strength that was hard to find in most women. Or men.

“Herr Grantiaire, I’m glad to see you. My husband is expecting you in his study, and I was going to take him his cap of tea when you knocked. Will you follow me?”

He smiled at her easily.

“After you, madam.”

The Head Commander of the camp, Hans Juchem, stood from his seat when they entered his study.

“Thank you, my dear” he thanked his wife after she deposited the tea tray on his desk. “We take it from here.”

Frau Juchem nodded with a smile and exited the room obediently.

“I’m glad to see you again, Grantaire. I trust there wasn’t any difficulties in your journey.”

“None.”

“That’s good. I want to hear all the news you bring from the army. Did your father comment you something about the plans of the Führer now that we’ve declared war to the US?”

“Most of it is confidential. My father didn’t considered it prudent to share those news just yet. However he did tell me that…”

The meeting lasted almost three hours, during which Grantaire shared with him all the news he had gathered in his two weeks journey visiting his father; he told him about the progress of the war and the river of politics in Berlin. Once he had finished sharing his news, the commander informed him of the few notable events that had occurred at the camp during his absence.

“We received a new load of volunteers for the Borkum subcamp. They are already settled and working hard, but since you are in charge of that branch of the camp it will be good for you to familiarize with them.” He paused for a second, his eyes scanning the documents laying on his desk.

Then he said:

“In Berlin they asked that we increase productivity by a forty percent before the end of the summer. I'd like to give them a fifty percent increment. I don't care what methods we use to obtain it. Now that US is a player in the game, I foresee the war will last longer than expected. We might not be fighting ourselves in the front, but our work it's vital for the War Effort. Without the war machinery that we are building here, Germany and the Führer would be lost forever. We can't allow that to happen.”

“I agree. And it won’t.” Grantaire stated with certainty. “Even with the incorporation of the Americans to the war, our superiority in military leadership’s skills and technology will earn us a victory in not longer than two years. The Führer is convinced of this, and so are his Generals, my father among them.”

“And meanwhile, all we can do it’s our duty” the Commander concluded after him. “Very well then. Let us do our duty. You are dismiss, Herr Grantaire.”

Grantaire stood and bow his head to him.

“Commander.”

 

 

The Alderney concentration camp was located in the island of Alderney. It was the only concentration camp built in British soil, and its location had strategic importance for the War Effort.

The camp had opened its doors in January of 1942, and by spring of the same year it was completely operational. It counted with four sub-camps. The inmates in Sylt Camp and Norderney Camp were slave labourers forced to build many military fortifications and installations throughout Alderney.

Norderney Camp housed European and Russian enforced labourers, while Borkum Camp was used for German technicians and "volunteers" from different countries of Europe. Their principal mission was to build bunkers, gun emplacements, air-raid shelters, and concrete fortifications to help the War Effort.

Grantaire was Head Supervisor of those two sub-camps, which in the practice meant that he was the man in charge, even though he had to submit weekly reports to Herr Commander Juchem, the Camp Director. If something went wrong, he would’ve to answer to him.

In spite of his ambivalence when he had been assigned to this post four months ago, he had come to enjoy his time here. The weather was mild, especially compared to the winters in Poland, where he had spent the previous year in a different assignment. Furthermore, his father wasn’t here with him, which meant that Grantaire no longer had to carry out his duties under a pair watchful of eyes that followed him everywhere, expecting defeat.

There were also other advantages at being assigned here, in a camp whose Jew population was as small and unimportant as possible, within the Nazi regime, but Grantaire didn't allow himself to linger in them. He was an SS official and man of the Führer, first and foremost. Certain thoughts were not appropriate.

From the Commander Office he went back to his house to prepare himself some lunch. He wasn't particularly hungry, but knew that his body needed energy to function. Grantaire needed his body to function if he wanted to carry out his duties. So he baked a potato and two sausages and boiled an egg. Then he ate them.

He exited the house at 3:00pm. At that time, the Borkum Camp prisoners were still working in the factories; as he didn’t want to interrupt their work, he decided to go to Norderney Camp first.

As was usual in the camp, Norderney prisoners worked in small groups, generally made up by those who shared a barrack. Grantaire was known by most of the inmates, but even those who did not know him knew who he was by looking at his uniform. He talked to the Camp officials and with a few of his fellows SS, but they were more involved with the statistics and administrative affairs than the actual running of the camp.

He needed to know how the new prisoners were adjusting to the life in the camp, and especially if there was any risk of having one or more subversives between the newcomers.

For this purpose, he needed to talk to the Kapos.

In the camps, Kapos were the ones who helped to maintain order and high rates of production. They were prisoners of German origin, whose crimes were unrelated to politics.

They could be thieves, rapist or killers, and generally they were cruel men who took pleasure at the expense of the suffering of others. But their tactics, as despicable as they were, were also very effective.

For every barrack, there was a Kapo. He was the man in direct charge of his unit, and it was his duty to maintain an acceptable level of discipline and productivity. In addition, Kapos were commonly aware of every rumour, every piece of relevant gossip and information. Therefore, they were the ones to talk to if someone needed to know the real state of the camp.

Grantaire interviewed them, one by one, and his worries about the newcomers were slowly soothed by the reports they provided him. Finally, once he was satisfied with the information he had gathered, he exited the Norderney precinct and drove to Larger Borkum.

Both compounds were not far from each other. It took less than a five minute drive to go from the first to the second, but the security measures put in place guaranteed that none prisoners from one compound could communicate with the other.

It was almost 7:00pm when Grantaire arrived to Borkum camp. The night had already fallen, and the workers had concluded their work at the factories and were back in the barracks. Good. It would make the process simpler.

Grantaire visited each barrack. All the Kapos in this compound were familiar with him, and most important, they knew what he required from them, so they presented their reports in an eloquent and brief manner. They were all intimidated by him, because they all knew who his father was; though how had they found out this, he didn't know. But at least Grantaire was able of holding their gaze, and staring at their eyes contemptuously while they talked didn’t require much effort on his part. Which was more than he could say regarding his interactions with the rest of the prisoners.

The revision of the first six barracks went on without difficulties. When he knocked the door of the barrack number seven, however, no one answered. Loud noises could be heard coming out from the inside.

He shared a displeased look with the two guards that walked behind him, guarding his back. One of them moved forward and opened the door, stepping aside. Grantaire entered the barrack. He looked around, quickly evaluating the situation.

A few prisoners were occupying their place in their bunks, but most of them had formed a huddle around two inmates. Some of men in the circle were cheering, but most of them looked deeply upset; many were shouting angry words. None of them seemed to take notice of Grantaire presence.

Of the two inmates that had become the centre of attention, Grantaire easily recognized the first one. He was standing tall with a leather belt in his hand, a cruel smile in his lips and a vindictive expression in his eyes. He was Montparnasse, the Kapo of barrack 7, and not his favourite person to deal with.

The other inmate... He was in his knees, and his back was bleeding. He was being whipped.

Grantaire couldn't see his face, only the back of his head. His hair was extremely short; barely a fluff. He had been shaved recently, as was compulsory for all the new prisoners. A new inmate, then.

The scene itself wasn't very shocking. More often than not, new prisoners required a good beating or two before they were able to adjust to the life in the camp, accept the strict discipline and bend to the rules. Especially those prisoners who came from high backgrounds.

This is exactly what Grantaire was expecting, and the reason he had spent the last five hours interviewing prisoners instead of focusing his effort in more pressing and important matters. And yet… Yet, there was something innately wrong with this scene.

At first Grantaire couldn't point it. It was just a feeling. Something was wrong.

Then he realized.

The second prisoner was in the floor, yes, in his knees, and obviously in a lot of pain from the lash wounds on his back. But he kept his head tall, despite the pain that had to be crushing his body, and he held his right hand in high, as if commanding others to stay back, to let him be whipped, and not to intervene.

Something awoke in Grantaire's stomach. A cold chill went up from his guts to his chest.

An uncomfortable feeling. The echo of a memory.

The face of a dead man long before.

None of it showed in his face.

The Kapo, Montparnasse, rose his hand to unleash once again the force of the leather belt on the back of his fellow inmate. Grantaire didn't give him enough time to deliver the hit.

"Inmates, attention!" His voice was cold and impersonal, as it was proper of a SS official.

It had the desirable effect.

Silence filled the barrack. All previous voices and sounds had died. It took the inmates twenty seconds to overcome their surprise and fear at his unexpected presence; then they hurried to form as they had been instructed. They stood straight in front of their bunk, shoulders back and heads down. All of them; including the Kapo and the man in his knees.

Grantaire consciously avoided to look at the last one.

“Will anyone explain now the meaning of this?”

Montparnasse spoke up, without fear.

“I’ll explain, sir. I’m in charge of this barrack. I handle this men and they must learn to obey me. That one there needed a lesson for days, I merely offered to teach one today.”

Grantaire nodded. It wasn’t unusual. He was going to move towards another matter, when someone interrupted.

“That’s not truth!”

The silence in the room grew colder. No one ever spoke to an SS official without being addressed first. No one ever dared. For good reasons.

And nonetheless, someone was doing precisely that.

“It wasn’t his fault, it was mine! I was the one who infuriating him. Montparnasse said that I was too young, that they’ve made a mistake, but they would realise and fix it soon. Said if I was good to him he could protect me. But I didn’t believe him, and I didn’t like him so I kicked him.”

Grantaire looked at the man who had dared to speak up, and saw that his words were true. He was not a man. He couldn’t be older than fourteen. It wasn’t very hard to believe then, that Montparnasse had tried something with the kid, even knowing how severely homosexually was punished. But that still didn’t explain how the other man ended up in his knees and bleeding.

“Please, sir. It’s my fault, I-”

“Gravroche!” someone in the crowd warned the kid. He didn’t listen, though. He kept telling Grantaire what had happened.

Grantaire…

Grantaire was no longer listening. Because Grantaire recognized that voice. Of course he did. A thousand years of torment in hell wouldn’t have been able to make him forget it. And it hadn’t been that long by far.

But… It couldn’t be.

It just couldn’t be.

“…so he told him that only cowards attack those who are weaker, and that if he was so determinate to inflict pain on those who cannot defend themselves, he would take the whipping for me. But it was my fault all along, sir. If you ought to punish someone, please, let it be me, not Enjolras.”

Enjolras.

Oh, god. It was Enjolras.

Enjolras.

The kid kept rumbling nonsense. Montparnasse said something too. To theirs, more voices were added. Grantaire was no longer listening. He didn’t hear a thing.

The name echoed in his brain over and over. Like a curse.

Enjolras.

Like a sickness.

Enjolras

He was frozen.

And cold.

So cold.

“…aire. Herr Grantaire!” one of the guards was calling him. He looked worried.

Of course. His face had to reflect the shook he was feeling, at least to some extreme. His cheeks were too pale, surely. His eyes, terrified. And he hadn't muttered a word yet. His skin was extremely cold, too; and his heartbeat accelerated. Not that the guards had a way to know that.

“Herr Grantaire! Are you indisposed, sir? Would you like to be driven to the infirmary?”

The infirmary?

No. He didn’t need to be taken to the infirmary. Maybe a mental hospital. If he were drank, that would explain it… But he hadn’t touched a bottle in almost two years. Not since… Not since he lost him. Since he lost them.

Enjolras.

Combeferre.

Courfeyrac.

Jehan.

Joly.

Bossuet.

Bahorel.

They were all dead.

Enjolras was dead.

And Grantaire was…

“Taire?”

It was barely a whisper, a frightened murmur. But it served its purpose, and it brought him back to reality. To his current reality.

His eyes searched for the person who had spoken, even though he already knew who he was. Grantaire could never forget that voice, either, even if it lacked the terrible strength and overpowering determination of Enjolras. This voice was soothing, musical and welcoming. And it carried its own strength.

Jehan Pouvarie returned his gaze. Grantaire felt his heartbeat; once, twice, three times. He saw recognition. He saw relief. He saw love. The he saw realization. Understanding. Horror. Shock. Hurt.

He saw all those emotions in the space of three heartbeats.

He wasn’t able to hold his gaze any longer. His eyes let go of Jehan, and moved to the man at his right; to the man whose back was still bleeding.

Grantaire knew what he was going to find. He had no doubts about this man identity. He knew it, but he still needed to see. So he looked, he looked at the man, stared at his eyes, and it only took him a second to realize how big mistake that had been.

He eyes were fire. Pure fire. They were sharp daggers aiming to strip him of his heart, they were anchors designed to grab his soul and take it with them to the deepest of the ocean. They were the Furies reborned, ready to unleash their unimaginable power and thirst of revenge against a tainted and rotten world.

They were shining with the same shade of blue that he remembered: the same strength, the same passion; determination, judgement, protectiveness, love, thirst for justice, a chant for freedom. They were exactly as Grantaire saw them every night in his dreams.

Only one thing was different. For those eyes had never looked at him with so much hatred before, with such hate. Not even when he had stormed a justice meeting while drunk; not when he had stubbornly argued him every point during an assembly. Not when he had drunk so much that he had passed out on the spot. There had been judgment then, there had been some content. Pity. Anger.

But never this visceral hatred. This was the kind of hate that Enjolras had always reserved for the Oppressors, the Killers, the worst slag of humanity. The sort of people that Enjolras would've sold his very soul, if not those of his friends, to have them forever eradicated from the face of Earth.

Grantaire was one of them now.

If there had been a piece of his heart that was still alive and beating in that current moment, that look in Enjolras eyes would've shattered it irrevocably. But it was too late for that, because there wasn’t. All that was left in place of Grantaire's heart was an empty hole. Nothingness.

He had made a choice, two years ago. He had made a vow. He had sold his soul to devil in order to see it through. That was what mattered. That fact that Enjolras and some of his former friends were alive, it didn't change one thing.

It would't.

It couldn't.

He couldn't allow it.

Thus Grantaire closed his eyes, and blinked. And when he reopened them he was no longer staring at Enjolras or Jehan. He was looking at his subordinates.

“Herr Grantaire?”

“Yes.”

He issued the pertinent orders. Order had to be maintained at all cost. Workers could not be damage in excess. The productivity of the camp depended upon the good health and predisposition of the inmates. The hierarchy of command had to be respected. An abuse of power would not be tolerated. Any infringement of the norms, would result in severe consequences. For everyone.

He finished his speech. Rose his right hand. Said farewell.

“High Hitler!”

He could not, would not, think about them again.

It had been nineteen months since the last time that Grantaire had yearned this badly for a bottle of alcohol, and the oblivion this one offered. It had been nineteen months. He could make it one more day.


	2. Chapter 2

Grantaire did make it one day more without drinking. And a day after that. Then a week. Two. Three. The temptation was constantly in the back of his mind, threatening to come to the surface at the most unwelcome times. But he ignored it.

He also ignored the extraordinary fact that his friends had not died two years ago, as he had been led to believe –at least not all of them–, and a few of them were currently inmates in the camp, living and working in terrible conditions less than a mile away from his house.

Part of him still didn't believe it. He had been there; he had been late, but had listened to the witnesses. They all said the same thing. His friends were dead. They had been killed.

It was the outcome Grantaire had foreseen, so he didn't bother to find actual proof of it. He had believed their words, because they were the ones he was expecting. But had they known? Had _he_ known?

Just the possibility that all this time _he_ had been aware of the fate of his friends, and consequently chosen to keep it from him, filled Grantaire with a rage that clouded his senses and made his head spin. But he knew he couldn't afford these doubts.

He was too deeply involved. He had carried out horrible deeds, done things... terrible things that made him sick just to think about them. All for the sake of a cause that wasn’t his to start with. But he was committed. He had made a vow, he had devoted himself to the cause and, more important, he believed in it now. Grantaire would not, could not allow the things he had done to be in vain.

Thus he chose to ignore his friends’ existence, and instead focused his attention on more pressing matters.

But the end of August the productivity of the camp had nearly doubled, which pleased the Herr Commandant beyond measure. He congratulated Grantaire and even wrote a letter to his father complimenting his commitment and dedication to the cause. Grantaire was pleased, but he worried the workers would not be able to maintain the same level of productivity come winter.

Vital members of the Party visited the island during the last week of the month, bringing with them news from the War Front and from Berlin. Every night Herr Commandant engaged his guests in an enthusiastic discussion about strategy, economy, and the most adequate path to follow if the war was to be won quickly and with the fewest casualties. Grantaire was invited to each of these reunions, so he listened, nodded, smiled, politely declined a glass of cognac, and shared an opinion when the occasion called for it.

The morning after the dignitaries left the island, he went to visit Frau Juchem.

“Good morning, Frau” he greeted her with a bow of his head after she opened the door.

Frau Juchem smiled at him in return.

“What can I do for you today, Herr Grantaire?”

“I was wondering when you next trip to Paris is going to take place.”

“Oh. Have you already eating all the goods I brought you after my last journey?”

“Indeed, madam." Grantaire conceded with a theatrical reverence. "There is little I can say in my defense, except perhaps that there is few things in this world sweeter than Paris pastries and baked goods.

"And no one likes sweet things as much as you do, is that right Herr Grantaire?"

Grantaire smiled, though the smile didn't reach his eyes.

"I also have some suits and coats that I'd like if you could take with you." He chose to answer instead. "They need a proper dry cleaning, and heavens know is impossible to find one in this island."

Frau Juchem nodded.

"I suspected it might be the case. I already talked to my husband and I'll be ready to leave in two days."

This time, when Grantaire smiled, he meant it. Even if the corners of his mouth were still tense and his eyes looked very, very tired.

"Wonderful."

He was prepared to say his goodbyes, then, when her gentle voice stopped him.

"Why don't you come inside? I’d like it if we could chat a bit longer.” It wasn’t a good idea, and he had an excuse ready in his lips when she added. "Please."

“Very well.”

He couldn’t refuse her after that. He sighed, and followed her to the kitchen. She gestured for him to take a seat. They were silent for a few minutes while she worked her magic in the coffee pot, and heated two small pastries in the oven. Once she deposited the coffee tray in the table, though, and took a seat next to him, Grantaire braced himself.

"I'm worried about you." That was her; painfully straightforward.

“And I appreciate it. But I assure you, there is no need to worry, Frau Juchem. I was merely–”

“Eponine” she interrupted him.

“What?”

“Just for today. Call me Eponine. That’s the name I was born with.” Grantaire shifted his posture, not entirely comfortable with the place where the conversation was headed. “I know we haven’t known each other very long, but I've come to know you well these last six months. I know who you are, and I know you're working towards the same goal as I. As all of us" she added as a last thought, her eyes wandering around the room for a few seconds, before redirecting her attention back to him.

“Yes.”

“But something is being bothering you, these last few weeks.”

Grantaire swallowed. He couldn’t tell her the truth, no matter how much he had wished he could share it with anyone, so he made up an excuse.

“It was a difficult week, for all of us. The arrival of the dignitaries–.”

“It started before that.”

“Eponine.” There was a warning in his voice. It was also the first time he used her given name to address her. He didn't know yet how he felt about that.

“I’m not interrogating you. I’m not. That is not what this is about. But I care about you, I do, and if there is any way I can help…”

Grantaire sighed again. He allowed himself some time to consider her offer for real this time. It was tempting; and he had always been weak. And why not? What did he have to lose anyway? If he could not trust her, then who?

“It’s just that–” how to explain it without actually explaining it? His hands rubbed his forehead for a few seconds, and then he lifted his chin to stare at her eyes. “I know who I am, what I am. I have no illusions about it. I know why I do what I’m doing. I know what the goals is, and the sacrifices… they are worthy. They have to be worthy.” His voice cracked at this point. “But I– I can’t…What if there is something I can do, something I wish to do above all else? The reason this started for me, the reason I am here. What if I can do things right, and right my wrongs, but not without compromising everything else?”

Eponine stared at him. Her eyes were serious, and her face wore a grave expression.

“You are not the best at explaining things. And there isn't much advice I can give you when you refuse to tell me what the real situation is.” He shrugged. He could tell no more. “I will tell you this, then. We all have our goal, and we all made the same vow. Our reasons no longer matter. The things we’ve done, the things we’ve seen… that’s what matter now. What will happen if we fail…We know better than most. That’s why we cannot afford to fail.”

Grantaire nodded slowly, acknowledging the value of her words. They were the same words he had been telling himself for weeks now.

“But Grantaire” Eponine reached out for his hand, and the sudden touch startled him as much as her next words did. Her skin felt very warm over his. “We are still humans. We can't afford to ignore the bigger picture, but we still have feelings. And those feelings are the only thing keeping us human. Embrace them, if you can. As much as possible.”

Grantaire considered Eponine’s last words very carefully along the next few days. She had told him to embrace his feelings, as much as possible, without deserting the cause. He still didn’t know if that was at all possible, or how.

While it was true that he had scrupulously avoided any chance to encounter them again, going so far as to deviate from his usual routine, he hadn't been completely able to ignore his friends' existence. He had been curious. That fateful night, three weeks ago now, he had recognized Enjolras and Jehan between all the other prisoners. He had even heard their voices, if only for a brief moment.

But if they were alive, it meant that the others could be, as well, so the next morning Grantaire had personally reviewed the documents where had been registered the identity of the newly arrived inmates. He didn’t find any of his other friends’ names, but tried not to lose hope. There were many Concentration and Labour Camps distributed around German territories. His friends could’ve ended up in any of them. Grantaire outright refused to think about how high mortality rates were on most of those camps. He had already mistaken them for dead once. He would not repeat the same mistake twice.

Unfortunately for Grantaire, once the identity records proved unable to help him, he was left with an impossible choice: to talk to the source. If indeed any of his other friends had survived the fateful revolt, Enjolras or Jehan would have to know about it.

The problem was that, not matter how much he wished to know about his friends' fate, Grantaire couldn't bring himself to confront them. Once had been bad enough. The hatred on Enjolras eyes would haunt him forever, wherever he went.

As had the last words they had exchanged.

 _20 months ago..._

_It was sunny day, which wasn't strange for Paris at the beginning of the month of June, but the lovely weather did not match the spirit of those who were meeting at the back room of a coffee shop. They were mostly university students, male and female, but there were also a few middle-class workers between them. They were all sharing the same expressions of discontent and sheer rage, and they were all listening to the same man._

_The man they were all listening to was Enjolras._

_Then, there was Grantaire._

_Grantaire eyes were also fixated on Enjolras, but unlike the rest of them, his brow was furrowed, his lips twisted into a grimace of disapproval, and his heart beating gravely in his chest._

_He didn’t like what he was hearing._

_“My friends, my brothers” Enjolras owned the whole the multitude. They were all pending of his words, as if they were a divine message from a God itself. "I grieve with thee. It's been almost a year now; a year since our shameful government surrendered our rights and our freedom to a foreign country. They did not have, at any moment, the authority to do so, for they have been elected by the people and was their duty to submit to will of the people. But they villainously refused to listen to us, and so they made us slaves of a dictatorship, subjects of a mad man. They took away our citizenship, our liberty, and what is most precious to us, our very identity as French men and women.”_

_The whole crowd echoed him with noises of agreement._

_“For a year now we’ve been silently fighting to recover those precious lost privileges, privileges that should never be considered as such, for they are nothing but civil rights, human rights. We have derailed trains, burned post, and cut phone cables. It is not enough. In order to expel the invaders from our_ _country_ _, from our_ _houses_ _, a more direct approach needs to be taken. We need to be seen, and we need to be heard.”_

_More cheers._

_Grantaire couldn't take it any longer._

_“And what do you propose we do, exactly?”_

_If looks could kill, Grantaire would have been stricken to the ground in a heartbeat. Such was the intensity on Enjolras eyes._

_“I propose we attack. I propose we carry out a direct attack against the very base of this wicked government.”_

_Grantaire felt his eyes widened, horrified. He had to have misunderstood him. Enjolras didn’t actually mean that. It was crazy. It was suicidal._

_“You want to assault the Parliament House?” his voice reflected all the fear and incredulity he was feeling. The worst thing was that his accusation didn't appal Enjolras in the slightest. If anything, it had the opposite effect._

_“Yes.”_

_“But that’s–” there were no words to describe what a terrible idea it was. “That’s mad. Foolish! It’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever had, and you’ve come up with a few. They’ll kill you!”_

_Enjolras frowned, clearly offended by this valorisation._

_“It will be risky, yes. And some of us may die. It’s an outcome we have come to terms with a long time ago. But those sacrifices will–”_

_“No, no! You are not listening.” Grantaire was frantic. A terrible anxiety had overpowered him, and even his usual eloquence seemed to have been dissipated. “They’ll kill all of you. If you go against them in the open, none of you will survive, and you will have accomplished nothing.”_

_“You are wrong. We will have accomplished a lot. We’ll have been seen. We’ll have been heard. We will inspired the people, we will show them that it’s possible, and they’ll rise after us.”_

_“No, they will not. People are too afraid. People are tired of war and death. The only thing they want it's to be left alone. They will not follow you, they'll–”_

_“Just because you are a coward–”_

_“This has nothing to do with me!”_

_“Exactly. It has nothing to do with you. What are you here, anyway? You do nothing but drink and joke. You never contribute, never take us seriously.”_

_They both had lost their tempers completely. Enjolras face was flushed, his hands contracted into a fist, his back straight, and his whole posture was defensive, but he seemed ready to jump in a second. Grantaire face was also flushed, but his apparent displeasure could only hide his inner distress to a point._

_“And you are unable to listen to reason! I know how little regard you hold for your own life, but you do care about your friends. You will be leading to their deaths. They will kill until the last of you, and they will make sure that there is nothing left of you to be remembered, not even your names. And in return, you will have achieved what? Explain to me how all this sacrifice will be worthy? What will you obtain in return for surrendering your lives? It is not much wiser, a much more prudent option to wait and buy our time? To remain in the shadows until the time comes when we do have an actual chance of victory?”_

_People were listening to him now, and a few were agreeing with him. Enjolras noticed this. And he didn't like it. He narrowed his eyes, and stared at him coldly. Suddenly, that gaze made him feel very small and powerless. Grantaire knew that whatever words came out from his mouth in that moment, they were going to be hurtful._

_“Well, your opinion is not surprising, considering who your father is." He stated, calmly. "In fact, I wouldn't be very shocked if one of these days you walked in wearing a Nazi uniform.”_

_The wine bottle slipped from his hand. Grantaire could do nothing else but stare at him, frozen; even his heart had stopped beating. He had known Enjolras was aiming to hurt, but in no way had he been ready to hear_ that _. Not from him, of all people._

_Many of his friends were outraged now. They looked at Enjolras accusingly, and spoke up to defend Grantaire. But he didn’t hear any of them._

_His whole been was fixated on Enjolras._

_“That’s what you think of me?”_

_Enjolras narrowed his eyes._

_“Have you ever given me reason to believe something else?”_

_Grantaire bowed his head._

_“You will see.”_

**Author's Note:**

> This story is placed during WW2. I'm not an expert but I've done some research, and most of the locations and events are real. Names and characters are completely made up, obviously, and so it's the plot.
> 
> This story will touch some subjects that are very delicate. I don't want to offend anyone. That's the last thing I want. Please, if you decide to read this, let it be under your own responsibility.


End file.
